A Celtic Psaltery Part 26
And France, for whom he fought a youthful gallant, From whose proud breast he drew Fashoda's thorn-- France who with England shared his searching talent, France like his second mother stands forlorn.
A man of men was he, the steadfast glances Of whose steel-grey, indomitable eyes So pierced the mind, behind all countenances, Crushed were the sophist's arts, the coward's lies.
A man of men but in his greatness lonely-- Undaunted in defeat, in conquest calm, For G.o.d and Country living and dying only, And winner therefore of the deathless palm.
A truce to tears then. Though his body hath No rest in English earth, his shining soul Still leads his armies up the arduous path He paved for them forthright to Glory's goal.
And we the men and women who remain, Let us to be his other Army burn With such pure fires of sacrificial pain As shall reward our warriors' return.
But now a sudden heavy silence falls On all our streets, half-mast the standard hangs-- The hea.r.s.eless funeral pa.s.ses to St. Paul's, And out of every steeple the death-bell clangs.
Now sorrowing King and Queen, as midday booms, The hushed Fane enter, while o'er mourners black, Grey soldier, choral white, quick gleams and glooms Of sun and shadow darkle and sparkle back.
The prayers of priest and people to heaven's gate win And a choir as of angels welcoming thither our chief-- Till a thunder of drums the mighty Dead March beats in And the Last Post lingers, lingers and dies on our grief.
INSCRIPTION FOR A ROLL OF HONOUR IN A PUBLIC SCHOOL
Since to die n.o.bly is Life's act supreme, And since our best and dearest thus have died, Across our cloud of grief a solemn gleam Of joy has struck, and all our tears are dried.
For these men to keep pure their country's fame Against great odds fell fighting to the death, G.o.d give us grace who here bear on their name To grow more like them with each proud-drawn breath.
AN EPITAPH
On an Irish Cross in memory of Charles Graves, Bishop of Limerick
To G.o.d his steadfast soul, his starry mind To Science, a gracious heart to kin and kind, He living gave. Therefore let each fair bloom Of Faith and Hope breathe balsam o'er his tomb.
AN INTERCESSIONAL ANSWERED
(June 26, 1902)
We thought to speed our earthly King Triumphant on his way Unto his solemn Sacreing Before Thy throne to-day; His royal robes were wrought, prepared His sceptre, orb and crown, And all earth's Princes here repaired To heighten his renown; When, hurtling out of bluest Heaven, Thy bolt upon us fell; Our head is pierced, our heart is riven, Struck dumb the Minster bell.
Yet flags still flutter far and wide; The league-long garlands glow, Still London wears her gala pride Above a breast of woe.
Lord shall these laughing leaves and flowers Their joyful use forget?
Nay, on this stricken realm of ours Have Thou compa.s.sion yet.
Long years ago our Edward lay Thus fighting for his breath, Yet to such prayers as now we pray Thou gavest him back from death.
Then o'er the tempest of his pain, His cry of perishing thrill, Let Thy right arm go forth again, Thy saving "Peace! be still!"
Until to all his strength restored Thy Spirit lead Him down, In solemn state, Almighty Lord, To take from Thee his crown.
VI. PERSONAL AND VARIOUS
LET THERE BE JOY!
(A Christmas carol from the Scotch Gaelic)
This is now the blessed morn, When was born the Virgin's Son, Who from heights of glorious worth, Unto earth His way has won; All the heav'ns grow bright to greet Him, Forth to meet Him, ev'ry one!
All hail! let there be joy!
All hail! let there be joy!
Mountains praise, with purple splendour, Plains, with tender tints, the morn; Shout, ye waves, with prophesying Voices crying, "Christ is born!
Christ, the Son of heav'n's High King, Therefore sing no more forlorn!"
All hail! let there be joy!
All hail! let there be joy!
A HOLIDAY HYMN
He, unto whom the Heavenly Father Hath in His works Himself revealed, Sees with rapt eyes the glory gather O'er hill and forest, flood and field.
He, when the torrent laughs in thunder, Larks soar exulting in the blue, Thrills with the waterfall's glad wonder, Far up to heaven goes singing too;
Wanders, a child among the daisies; Ponders, a poet, all things fair; Wreathes with the rose of dawn his praises, Weaves with eve's pa.s.sion-flowers his prayer;
Full sure that He who reared the mountain, Made smooth the valley, plumed the height, Holds in clear air the lark and fountain-- Shall yet uplift him into light.